Fact: When someone walks into a lamp-post it makes a very satisfying and hugely hilarious "Ding!" noise. However, it is not quite so funny when the post is in the middle of town and you are the victim. Tell us about hilarious prat-falls.

Sheffield gets a lot of bad press regarding its public transport system. To be fair as if you don't live on the tramline you're stuck with First (the worst) Buses.

Being fortunate enough to live slap bang in the middle of the City Centre I am able to catch trams to just about anywhere that I may need to be.

Right so having begun the trip out towards the cinema just outside the City Centre I am happily sat upon the tram as we pass through the outskirts of Sheffield. As the Tram arrives at the Attercliffe stop for whatever reason the driver has pushed the wrong button in the cab and both sets of doors have opened. Nothing overly fascinating in that. My attention is drawn away from the extra set of open doors to an elderly lady in her mobility scooter. The tram platform and the entrance to the tram are about level, occasionally there is a lip of a couple of inches.

As the lady is trying to get the scooter on to the tram she is hitting the lip. The conductor makes his way down and utters the immortal line.

"Jus' rev it me duck, you'll be reet"

She follows these instructions with aplomb. Backing the scooter up about ten feet. She hits the accelerate and becomes a blur. She hits the little lip buggy bounces up into the tram. Sadly she didn't apply the brakes as quickly and promptly shot out the (mistakenly) open doors opposite landing on the opposite side of the track and crashing into the platform.

To this day it is probably one of the funniest things I have ever seen.

The conductors reaction was just as funny. After looking through the doors to make she was ok, which she was, he simply called after nher

"Look here Penelope Pitstop, this is a tram stop not the start line in Wacky Races"

I have never had the misfortune to simultaneously wet myself and soil myself but i was pretty fucking close that day.

Length she went a good six feet past the tram before she landed.
(kickstandrichlast had sex with your mum/sister/wife/daughter on, Thu 21 Jan 2010, 12:50,
7 replies)

Of Messerschmitds and cats arses
To relay this story requires the admission of ultimate geekness.

Despite the fact I am on the wrong side of 40 and am meant to be all growed up, I have for a few years now rediscovered my childhood hobby of Airfix kits. Its a nice bit of stress relief and an escape from the never ending demands of work and fatherhood, essentially, having a creative outlet keeps me sane!.

So, in the early days of rediscovering this simple childhood pastime, before I took over a whole room in the house, I would build my little plastic aeroplanes on a tray on my lap in the livingroom.

One day, the wifes boss and his wife popped over for a quick social, and to set the scene of domestic bliss, I am sat in my easychair with a part built messerschmidt on my lap while everyone else is sat on the sofa drinking tea and boring the pants off me. The cat is happily draped over the back of the sofa purring sweet nothings into the ear of the boss's wife and the dog is in deep slumber in his basket on the floor at the other end of the sofa.

For those of you who have built a plastic kit, you may be familiar with the word "Sproing" for this is the sound occasionially made by a small plastic part launching itself into orbit when you cut it from the sprue.

It was time for the little plastic German pilot to be transplanted from the sprue into his cockpit, and true to form, as the stanley knife cut down to release him from the sprue there is a familiar "SPROINGGG" as the erstwhile 1/72 replica pilot took flight at close to supersonc speed sans aircraft!

DINK! he rebounded off the wall

SPROINK he ricocheed off the TV

And with a final POINK off the door he terminated his flight at some speed with a glancing blow to the cats rusty starfish which the cat had, up until now, been enjoying displaying to all and sundry, legs akimbo on top of the sofa!

This is where it all went a bit wrong

The cat lept vertically off the top off the sofa and with a crack hit the bottom of a shelf above the sofa, let out an anquished MROooowwwwlll and landed in a 4 paw full claw vice grip squarely on top of the head of the wife of the boss

The Wife of the boss let out a shriek as she was being efficiently scalped by the cat, now in the full throwes of the fight or flight decision and hurled her cup of tea into my wifes lap.

Meanwhile, the effect of the cat hitting the bottom of the shelf was enough to displace a vase of dried flowers at the far end of the shelf and with a Roing roing roing it slowly span on its base before falling off the end of the shelf.

The dog, woken by the noise, looked up, to get the vase of flowers square between the eyes! He then proceeded to go into a frenzy which first consisted of biting the ankle of the wifes boss as he was valiantly pawing at my wifes scalded mimsy to try to give relief and was thus a threat to canine kind, to then moving onto the beanbag which was duely ripped open with gay abandon showering the room in a festive haze of polystyrene balls.

Once the mayhem had susided a little, my quip of "bloody luftwaffe eh!" did not help as I had forgotten the Bosses wife was half German!.

MESSING WITH THE ORNAMENTS
One of my mates at university was a lovely girl named Kate Bucket Fanny. Kate acquired this name on account of having a vagina the girth and volume of your average JCB digger bucket. And like a JCB, she’d had plenty of builders inside her in her time. Midway through the first term Kate bequeathed my flatmates and I an object of wonder and delight: her knackered old vibrator that she’d ridden to mucky, gloopy oblivion. It was a crusty pink double-handed broadsword of a motorised dildo which leapt and bucked like an electrocuted break dancer whenever one of us plucked up enough courage to twist the base and turned the damn thing on.

It probably had the DNA of half the people in our halls splashed all over it and the remnants of all the best venereal diseases. We put it on our windowsill between the spider plant and our collection of empty Coors bottles, pride of place, you could see it from the road outside.

Then one night after a particularly heavy drinking session, one of my flatmates, Ian, more pissed than George Best after a liver transplant, appeared in our communal kitchen stark bollock naked. This was alarming. He then staggered over to the fridge, grabbed another beer, and in another jerky, drunken C3P0-esque move lifted Kate’s former best friend from the windowsill.

“Errr, Ian,” said one of my other flatmates, Blackpool Ben.Ian wasn’t listening. He tottered back over towards the closed kitchen door, revved up the mighty plastic phallus of dread, bent over and wiggled it round his brownstar.

At which point, one of my other mates, Dan, barged into the kitchen, slamming open the door and ramming Ian’s hand forward. Kate’s vibrator, humming and revving like an idling motorcycle, shot forward and disappeared, embedded deep inside Ian’s stinky sweetcorn tunnel. Ian screamed like, well, like he’d just been anally raped. He leapt forward, twatted his face on the kitchen counter and then landed in a heap face first on the kitchen floor, out cold, arms splayed either side, the final couple of inches of the massive though now somewhat muffled vibe doing a little jig buried between his buttocks.

The rest of us just stared.

We waited for Ian to come round himself – it would’ve just been a bit too gay to help our naked, drunk, machine-buggered mate out.

Two from my Dad's Copper Days
My Dad was in the police from mid 70s to the mid 80s. Here are two of the stories I have heard from him that tickled me at the time. I've no idea if they are true or not, but he told them as if true.

The Gyppo in the CaravanSo my Dad and two other cops are called to pick up a guy at a Gypsy site on suspicion of something dodgy. They all enter a large caravan and find a very drunk, very angry man shouting at nothing in particular.

So my Dad starts trying to calm the guy down, with Copper 1 behind him on his left and Copper 2 on the right. He's trying various things to calm the guy down, offers of drinks, and 'just wanting a little chat', etc but the guy is not having any of it and pulls a massive knife.

The next few actions took place in a few seconds.

My Dad jumps back into a defensive stance, trained into him from his early career. To his left Copper 1 picks a frying pan off the stove, but rather than brandishing it in defense, he covers his own crotch with it.

My Dad is standing there thinking "What the fuck?" when the Gypsy guy starts to make a lunge at the both of them.

"Oh here we go" thinks my Dad, when out of nowhere Copper 2 appears, brandishing an upright Vacuum Cleaner(!?) and spangs the Gypsy in the forehead with it, end on, as if in a comedy jousting tournament.

The gypsy goes down like a sack of shit, out cold. So they de-arm him, cuff him and wait for him to wake up, at which point they put him in the car.

Unfortunately, they had trouble questioning the guy later, as they couldn't stop cracking up. The Gypsy guy had 'Hoover' branded in reverse across his forehead.

The Cat BurglarA friend of my Dads (lets call him John) is sent out to investigate some suspicious activity in the Oxford area where he finds a house with a ladder against it, leading up to an ajar bedroom window.

Clearly a bit suspicious, but he can't see a van or any activity. He decides he had better investigate further.

So he proceeds to climb the ladder, remarking to himself how old and rickety it is.

As he reaches the top he briefly glimpses through the window a bedroom, with a cat sitting on the bed giving him a quizzical look.

I say 'briefly glimpses' because a second later there is a loud 'CRACK' as the rung he is standing on snaps cleanly through the middle. John plummets rapidly, each rung snapping cleanly as he hits them, like something out of a Looney Tunes cartoon. The sides of his hands gather a million splinters as they run down the sides of the ladder.

He hits the floor on his back and rolls away groaning, clutching his hands which are now 20% wood.

As he is laying there a car pulls up and a guy comes running over.

"What are you doing lying in my Garden mate? Are you alright?"

John slowly gets to his feet.

"I was checking your house, because there was a ladder going up to a window and someone reported it as suspicious!" John groaned.

"Oh no mate, that's just so my cat can get in, I haven't got a cat flap you see!" says the guy cheerfully.

my life is a load of cringeworthy situations with worky bits in between
to say i am a real life bridget jones would be an understatement.I often 'fuck up' and make 'a boo boo' on a day to day basis. one time that came to my head upon reading the title of this weeks QOTW was when I tried my hand at impressing the new and very sexy member of staff that joined our ward at the hospital where i worked. I purposely wasted my make up on going into work one day, and put my slightly tighter uniform on, in the hope he would come and drop off a patient to me that day.

He did.. He came to my desk (my heart starts doing 500 beats per minute) and for a split second i still recon he looked at me and thought ''she looks alright today''.. So i manage to maintain my professionality through listening about the patient were discussing, until.. for whatever fucking reason, i start telling him about a demented loud twat of a patient we had in earlier who had been pissing all over the floor, generally being a pain in the fucking ass (through no demented fault of his own of course).. so i was going through telling him the funny things said patient had been getting up to whilst casually flicking my hair, chewing my pen when he spoke back, you know, acting like a teenager talking to a crush..

It was a good conversation actually.. until about 10 minutes in he decides to tell me that the pen i have been sucking on while we spoke was leaking ink all over my fucking face. I ran to the patient toilet and basically my face was more fucking blue than it was face coloured... and my teeth, and my ear, ALL OVER MY FUCKING FACE.. fucing mortified. and to make matters worse, my failed attempots of using alco wipes to get the shit off wasnt good enough, and when he came in with another patient 2 hours later my teeth and gums were still fucking blue.

But to be honest this is nothing. I once fell head first in to an oven after hitting my ass on the kitchen bin infront of about 5 people..my nose went through a metal tray of chips (that were ready to come out btw) and when i did get my head out of the shitting oven i had hot fat in a perfect circle on the tip of my nose.

I once tried to impress a aload of firemen who were stopped at a red light in their fire truck by deciding (for whatever fucking reason) i would leapfrog over a bollard.. gave it ago.. forgot i had a skirt on.. queue bollard coming straight towards my face.. I was stuck, by my skirt, upsideown with my face at the bottom of a fucking bollard. one of them kindly got out of his truck and un-hooked me.

The stories i have are fucking endless. I hate my life.
(nettestarmeeow, Fri 22 Jan 2010, 19:30,
12 replies)

The missus and I
went for a little drink in a country pub.

Then another.

And then another.

Suitably pissed up on cider, we started to merrily make our way back up the country lanes to her house.

She decided she was tired and deserved a piggy-back. Being a gentleman, I obliged. The cider had other plans. As I hoisted her up, I over balanced like I was in a You've Been Framed video. We tottered to the left ... and then to the right ... and then to the left again and then we fell backwards into a large ditch next to the road. As I landed on her, I headbutted her in the face.

Being drunken fools, we couldn't get out because we were laughing so much. The laughter caused me to do a little cider fart, which was actually a little cider poo.

A cow in a field opposite watched me with bovine disdain as I hid in the hedgerow and wiped my bum with a receipt, giggling to myself all the while.
(Cylon Bum Raideralready knows how this will end, Fri 22 Jan 2010, 11:48,
7 replies)

Pinball.
"I bet you won't""Really? I bet I will!"

*****************************

Two friends and I were in the woods as usual, shooting bunnies for the local farmer. It was a cold winter's day, we were togged up far too warm, and our stomachs turned against us (as can happen in that Hot-inside / cold-outside kind of way.)

The other two had already relieved themselves, reporting dangerous bowel-escape velocity... and I was furiously waddling on the spot - buttocks clenched - trying to pretend that my arse wasn't about to explode.

Where to crap? Our eyes rose skywards.

In our woods there were various funky trees, but one was known as "the climbing tree". This name was well-earned as it had regular and sturdy branches that any 11 year-old can climb with his/her eyes closed. One side of the trunk was bare, giving a fantastic view from a great height.

"I bet you won't climb that and poo from the top"

5 minutes later, trousers round my ankles and a good 40-something feet off the ground, I was ready to let the pressure go... My mates had retired to a "safe distance" and by Christ I let rip.

The quiet winter's morning was shattered with a sound of tearing sail-cloth mixed with a baked-bean splatter-noise. Birds flew up in alarm as bowels were viloently evacuated. After the final sputtering squits were squeeezed out, my friends and I were in fits of giggles - leaving me fighting for balance. The overwhelming sense of rectal relief was marred only by 2 things:

I had negated to take any bog-roll with me.. and as I stood on the branch below begrudgingly hoiking my trollies up, I realised that my footing was worryingly slippery.. and then the final point dawned: my climb down was now dripping in steamy semi-liquid shit.40 feet of crap-encrusted branches.

I had painted myself into the corner in the worst way imaginable.

Half way down the climb amid shrieks of laughter from my companions - tears of frustration streaming down my face - (And shit dripping on my head from the branches above), I finally slipped; tumbling from branch to branch like a sodden shit-drenched pinball.

The walk home was thankfully short, with no encounters.

I still salute my father who greeted me in the garden. He'd seen me - bloody-lipped with a limp making my way across the lawn - and worried, he ran out. The look on his face asked it all, but he kept his lip buttoned.

"I had an accident dad"

He gave me a look that any father would give his shit-encrusted air-rifle-toting 13 year-old and went into the house, emerging 2 seconds later with a bucket or warm soapy water and a massive'n fluffy Dad-sized dressing gown.

"C'mon.. lets get you cleaned up... *sponge - dab - sponge*.... So, did you get any Rabbits?"

***************************************

I hope that when I'm a dad, I too know when *not* to ask the questions that I *really* want to ask.
(Humpty Dumpty was PushedAKA Chuff Nugget, Tue 26 Jan 2010, 9:21,
6 replies)

Peanuts
My sister-in-law was driving her boss's Porsche to the airport to pick him up. While waiting in the carpark she opened a pack of peanuts to have a snack but, as sometimes happens, as she opened the pack the nuts came spraying out all over the car.

She rapidly cleaned up all the nuts and salt, just before her boss arrived. 'Everything ok with my car?', he asked. "No problems!" squeaked his secretary, and they set off.

It was a hot day so he put the air blower on full blast, whereupon peanuts came blasting out of the air vents, including one which hit him on the nose.
(Smaleis stuffed, Wed 27 Jan 2010, 12:53,
5 replies)

.Blast from the past arse.

I'm going to apoligise in advance, and suggest that if you're eating, skip this and come back later.

Ere we go.. are you sitting comfortably? good.

I live in Sweden...

... and have in the past mentioned Surströmming and the violent aroma. If you doubt my wisdom, go and play with youtube. You'll find all sorts of people being violated by putrid fish smells.

Now.. Midsummer in Sweden is one HELL of a party. I've been here for a good few years, and I can't remember a single Midsummer where people haven't got royally rat-arsed, or fallen over while dancing round the giant phallic symbol that we erect for the party: Rinsing your recently abused pallet of rotten fish with large quantities of Vodka and Akvavit can get you more drunk than you'd care to imagine.. but as for the frog-dance there is no excuse. To be honest I hardly remember a single midsummer. Full stop... I remember this one though.

Anyway... there's lots of rampant alcohol fuelled shagging that goes on. This night I was going to become another statistic.

6am, and the missus and I have swayed home in the lazy and meandering way that the drunks have perfected over an eternity of liver-abuse... We were determined to nail each other to the bed when we get home. Now.. to be fair to her she was awesome in bed, it's just that this night was about to go wrong. Terribly terribly wrong.

We'd both been drinking for nearly 12 hours straight. We were both obscenely drunk... and I was having difficulty getting hard. I could hardly keep my body erect, let alone Mr Winky. Missus Humpty decided that - as sitting on my face was always a dead-cert for trouser-snake charming - she'd hoik her dress up, and ride my tongue.. This she did. Rather hard. I'm not only used to this, but a great fan to boot. My tongue worked away at her feverishly, her cute puckered barking-spider a bare few millimeters from my nose. I was in heaven, and - riding my face like a drunken pro - so was she.

She was sat in the perfect position to tug away at any signs of life, and as she and I both neared the point of no return I - mouth full of mimsy - was forced to heave air through my nose at a colossal rate, much like a jet-fighter at full throttle just before take-off....

We both came.... and - as fate would have it - the orgasm ripping through her body caused her to grind down harder on my face.. and fart - forcefully injecting un-diluted rectal gasses into my air-hungry nose.

A FULLL force, and totally ripe, hot Surströmming fart (far worse than the initial burst of smell from the tin), CLEAN up my nostrils. The reaction was instant and uncompromising. Completely unaware of her crime and mistaking my convulsions for throws of ecstasy, Mrs Humpty ground down harder on my face as I gasped for air.. The enormity of my horror peaked as, in the full grip of natural bolidy rejection, I hoyed my stomach's content, including a large amount of undigested, rotten fish, straight up her pink mitten.

While the fetid and vomited herring now deeply stuck in my nostrils caused the start of a gagging fit that would go on to last an apparent eternity, She ran screaming to the bathroom trailing a torrent of rotten fish, stomach acid, bile and alcohol from her burning fish-mitten.
(Humpty Dumpty was PushedAKA Chuff Nugget, Tue 26 Jan 2010, 15:02,
8 replies)

Squirrels are always good for a laugh.
Back in the 80s I lived in a small town and had a house on the edge of a lake. As it was all farm fields across the road and rather swampy land on either side of me, I had loads of wildlife all around, especially birds.

I got a bird feeder and put it up at the shore. And, of course, the squirrels drove off all the birds and gulped down expensive seed like Roseanne going after caviar.

One day I got annoyed and moved the feeder about three feet out into the lake. Did it stop them? Of course not, they merely leaped at the pole and shinnied right up.

So I coated the pole with a thick layer of Vaseline.

Picture a normally acrobatic and agile squirrel flying through the air to deftly land on a pole and climb it as he has done before, only now he's spinning around like a spastic pole dancer before landing nose first in the lake.

Hens be damned- there's nothing in the world madder than a wet squirrel.

Made for a great Saturday morning comedy show.
(The Resident LoonNot a demographic. Do not measure., Sun 24 Jan 2010, 23:18,
10 replies)

Dog prang
I used to have an Airedale Terrier, later killed by latent cat evil - he had a heart attack and died while barking at one of our feline friends.

As you might imagine, any dog that could bark himself to death wasn't your smooooshy and docile type of pet. PTony - the dog - was no exception. He was a dog jacked on crack, a perfect case for doggie Ritalin, huge and hyperactive in equal measures; the best I could hope for on any day was that he didn't decide to climb up the chimney...again.

He had a favourite game which involved mindlessly running around in circles for hours on end. Occasionally I'd require an adrenalin rush and step into this game with a tennis ball. I'd run, he'd run, he'd lob the tennis ball through something made of Expensive - much fun was had. On this day, I became distracted by something superpretty and shiny in the distance and stopped to drop jaw in awe. PTony, with a head of 8 parts concrete and 2 parts thick-o, kept moving like a perpetual motion idiot machine and PRANG! ran into my knee. My knee bore the brunt of such force that I was thrown across the room, tumbling until I hit the wall. And then the pain hit.

Being the big strong girl that I am, I lay screaming and crying on the floor, clawing at my flesh in abject agony. PTony, in a show of canine sympathy, wandered over to me to find out what I might taste like when I inevitably perished from my knee injury. He sniffed me for a second, then stood on top of me.

My husband came home an hour later to find the dog holding me down with two paws on my shoulders and the others on my stomach, trying to shove a tennis ball in my mouth.
(TheSnarkoh, c'mon, like you didn't see me coming, Tue 26 Jan 2010, 11:19,
6 replies)

New Year's Day 2004
I wake up with a bit of a hangover - nothing unusual in that - and reach over to the bedside table to put my glasses on. In my stumbling, oafish way, as soon as I touch them I manage to break off one of the arms. Right at the bastard hinge, so there's about 2 square millimetres of metal that could possibly be joined together. I'm in need of superglue, and there's none in the house.

"Bugger," thinks I. "I'll have to go and get some." So it was that I found myself in Woolworths on New Year's Day, trying not to look too green and bilious. I grab a bottle of superglue and pay for it, then retreat to a corner of the store to sort myself out. I burst the seal on the glue and it squirts all over my fingers. Instinctively I put my finger to my mouth. Dammit, I now have superglue on my lip. Never mind, my mouth isn't stuck together and I can chew it off once it's dry. But I still have superglue all over my fingers and I'm in woolies - there's nowhere to wipe my hand, so thinking quickly, I lift my foot and wipe it on the sole of my trainer.

Then carefully (without the aid of my glasses) I apply a little glue to the arm and hold it in place until the glue has set. It's a bit fiddly and requires all my hungover concentration. I'm sure there's something I should be thinking about but for now I can't quite remember what it should be - fixing my glasses is the number one priority. Aw bugger, it didn't quite stick properly. Never mind, try again. After about 20 minutes of this, the security guard is giving the young man with a glazed expression (almost totally blind without my specs) who is fiddling with an open bottle of superglue more than his fair share of attention and the missus is tugging at my arm to leave, but wait! I've done it - I've successfully glued my glasses back together! Never mind that I have dried glue all over my fingers and mouth, I can see again! Triumphantly (but carefully, I don't want to end up gluing the bloody things to my head) I put my glasses back on, put the cap back on the glue and make to leave the store.

Stairs
When you were little did you ever like to see how far you could jump down the stairs? Two steps, three steps! The daring fourth step?

Well I did. I was an easily pleased boy.

Twenty years later i'm visiting my folks house and just descending the stairs after going for a piss, when my synapses fire and I recall my younger escapades.

"I'm much bigger now" I thought "i could easily manage the forth step. Hell why not the fifth? What's the worst that could happen?"

I launch myself from the scary fifth stair, which because I'm so much bigger doesn't seem scary at all!

SLAM!!!

My child like joy is brought to a swift end as the top of my head slams into hallway ceiling right on the corner where it meets the wall that extends up the stairwell, a hazard i had not encountered before as I had always missed it what with being a small child and all.

"Aaaaaaargh!" I cry as i continue my downward journey, now distinctly more horizontal.

I ended up sat on my arse in the hallway with a splitting headache from a head that was now embedded between my shoulders.

"What the fuck are you up to now?" Asks my dad who has come to investigate.

Picture the scene...
In Blackburn there's a single escalator next to the Post Office that takes you up into the shopping centre. Whilst waiting for the bus one afternoon, I saw a drunken chap shuffling towards it. He stood for a second or two at the bottom, one leg rising and falling as though trying to time his step with that of the escalator. He finally committed, shifted his weight, teetered and then started to fall backwards. A well meaning passerby caught him as he fell, hooking him under the arms and catching him just in time. In itself this looked like a perfectly choreographed slapstick routine and I was more than satisfied to have watched it.

However, the feet of the drunkard were still on the escalator, and the passerby watched helplessly as his new friend’s legs rose steadily, until he was almost horizontal. Rather than drop the man, he made the split second decision to jump on the escalator too and the pair rose uncomfortably and precariously out of sight.

I felt like applauding. This was the perfect ending to the slapstick routine, from the viewer’s perspective at least. I don't imagine that the drunk was in the least bit grateful when they got to the top and due to the daft layout of Blackburn shopping centre the passerby had to walk right the way around the block to get back to his wife who he’d been with right at the start.

Disclaimer: Each time I recount this tale, I never feel that I’ve done it justice. In my head it takes the form of a silent movie accompanied by a jaunty piano soundtrack. It starts with an intertitle card with a witty remark and at the end I imagine the crackly black and white film fading to black as the characters slide out of view. I hope you can too.
(e.m.m.y.foxtrot uniform charlie kilo india tango, Fri 22 Jan 2010, 16:44,
9 replies)

Sadly another repost - but a fucking cracker, nonetheless.
A not-so-bright lad from my home town, called Bungle, was larking about with his pals in a local copse one day, when, for reasons unknown, decided he was going to have a shit from up in a tree. In front of said pals.

He sat on a branch, dropped his trousers and underpants, hung his arse over the back of the branch and proceeded to deliver his payload.

Sadly at the crucial moment his balance faltered, and to correct this he swang his legs back just in time to catch the turd in his pants.

He then fell out of the tree and ended up in a shitty heap on the ground below, to howls of laughter from his audience.

When I was about 10 years old
Playing in our road with some friends. We lived in a tree lined avenue.

One of my friends climbed into a tree, and sat on the lowest branch. The tree was pretty leafy, and you couldn't see him unless you were looking hard.

Another of my friends Mum walks past, carrying two bags of shopping. As she got to the tree, mate number one rolls forward on the branch, bringing his upside down face right in front of hers, and he screams 'Wheeeeeeee!!!!!'.

She dropped her shopping and ran off down the road crying.

I know these are all 'you had to be there' things, but it's making me laugh like a drain even now, 30 years later.
(Not Pineapple anymore, Thu 21 Jan 2010, 14:02,
5 replies)

Iron Surfing
Evangeline (not her real name) was a rather hefty young lady who lived in my halls of residence during my undergrad time. When I say hefty, I mean she must've been 6' 2" and looked like the muscular love child of Jonah Lomu and Sandi Toskvig. She was a nightmare to deal with when she got drunk, and get drunk she did regularly.

One night a bunch of us had traipsed down to the Union to go to one of the club nights there, Evangeline and my then girlfriend (her of the puking in the mouth story - see the vomit question of the week) were with us. Evangeline had rather a crush on one of my friend and spent the night trying to back him into a corner so that she could have her wicked way with him. Crunch time came at the end of the night and my friend, with the sort of expression I imagine a hare has when, after having been chased over 4 or 5 fields by a pack of baying hounds, now discovers a brick wall blocking its escape, was near panic. With difficulty we managed to corral Evangeline and cajole her into going back to the halls.

It was a bad walk, she kept on singing and shouting, especially about how she wanted to go surfing. When we finally managed to get her home we had to manhandle her up 4 flights of stairs as by this point she couldn't walk. My then girlfriend looked on pityingly as we manoeuvered her into her bedroom, then generously stepped in to strip her down to her underwear.

A minute later, as we stood talking in the stairwell, Evangeline bounded out, now only wearing her underwear, clutching an ironing board to her chest, and loudly declared she was going surfing. After another 10 minutes of persuasion we got her back into her room and all seemed quite. My girlfriend disappeared to her room and came back a few mins later with a joint, and we elected to go outside on to the grass, and to smoke and watch the stars.

Just opposite where we lay was the entrance to the building, with a fairly large glass window in front of the long flight of stairs to the first floor. We lay in dreamy happiness, arms around each other, appreciating the stars, each other, the pot, when we heard a bang and a crash, followed by another bang and a crash, then another...

Filled with wonder, we sat up, just in time to see, through the window, Evangeline (now dishevelled and minus her bra) balancing an ironing board at the top of the flight of stairs. She stood like an Olympic ski jumper for a second and then, before we could react, launched herself down the stairs, surfing on the ironing board. She actually made it to the bottom, but the edge of the ironing board caught on the floor and she flew a few feet forward, spread eagled, into the window.

There was a resounding *thunk*... the glass shuddered under her impact... she was pressed up hard against it, tits squashed flat, her face pressed hard... and then she slowly slid down, making a sort of *squueeeeeedge* noise, leaving a small trail of blood from her nose. Trying to control our mounting hysteria we checked she was ok and put her to bed again. She couldn't remember anything in the morning.

For about a week afterwards there was a faint imprint of a human body on the window.
(Zapiolazip-zap-zop, Mon 25 Jan 2010, 0:27,
2 replies)

I teach year 1, who are 5 and 6 year olds.
A couple of days ago we were getting changed for PE. One boy had managed to get the cord of his PE bag caught in his shorts. As he walked off to line up his bag was following him. He turned round to see it on the floor and took it back to his place, only for it to follow him back to the line. I watched this happen four times before I helped him out.

I go to a gym
Yes, yes really I do. Well OK, sometimes. Rarely. Once this year. Alright fuck off now!

Anyway, my gym is a fairly top end establishment (if I am going to avoid going anywhere, I will at least avoid going somewhere with class). Unfortunately, it is also inhabited by those irretrievable cunts, the yummy mummy and satanic offspring. I swear to God, when the revolution comes, they will be first against the wall.

One day, I visited the gym. Having no spawn of my own, I have no ready reckoning on when half term is, other than it is one of the few weeks when I can get home from work without being cut up by some fuckspanner in a Volvo XC90. So I decided to head to the gym to bust some abs. Or should that me pound some glutes? Who cares...

As I walk in, I notice a workman fixing the automatic glass doors between reception and the bar (now can we see why I use this gym?) which have been out of order for months. They are fully open and he's doing something technical involving the windy mechanism. So anyway, off I trot, get changed, get sweaty and tired out, then leave the changing room to do some exercise (changing room lolz!)

Afterwards, I decide a nice cup of coffee and maybe some pastry based goodness will sustain me, so I sit on one of the nice sofas with a newspaper and my beverage. Unfortunately, a gaggle of MILFITFWALHs (Mothers I'd Like to Fuck In The Face With A Large Hammer) are sitting chatting away completely oblivious to the terror their crotchfruit are causing, running around the place like utter, utter cunts.

After about 10 minutes of this, my blood pressure is starting to raise. Then, one of the little fucks does something that made me wash my nostrils with latte: they ran clean into the newly repaired, and now newly closed, automatic doors. The noise made can best be described thus:

THOOOIIIIIIIIINNNNGNGNGNNGNGNNGG

SCCCCREEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAACHHHHHHHHHHH

as the child does a comedy slide to the bottom of the doors where he/she/it lies in an inbred, snotty, waily heap, calling for mummy/nanny/Juanita.

All funny, but the funniest bit is when the workman, sitting on a chair having a cup of tea and reading the Sun, gets up, walks over to the door, gets out a small screwdriver and twiddles something, at which stage the doors spring open, and the child falls further to the floor.

The squash-racket cyclist spang.
I've posted this before on \talk, but fuck it, you lot can have it too.

this story is from my postdoc at UCL, many years ago. Well, about 6. UCL has some squash courts on Huntley St, and to get there from the Biochem Eng buildings you must cross Gower St at Torrington Place. Gower St is a three lane, one-way, southbound road that is parallel to Tottenham Court Road. Of this information, only the three-lane, one way part of it is important.

Two colleagues of mine were wandering back from from a squash game when I spied them on the other side of Gower St and shouted a suggestion of a beer. As good pedestrians (fuck it, it was rush hour) they waited for the lights to change and crossed on the green man. At this point the game was still apparently being dissected. One of them decides to demonstrate a particularly beautiful backhand. Just as a cyclist, approaching through the stationary traffic between lanes 1 and 2, decides "fuck it, red lights don't apply to me, I'm a cyclist!" and jumps the lights..... racket straight in the face. I swear it lifted him clean off his bike. It certainly dumped him in a bloody and broken heap on the floor in the middle of the junction.

I'm still giggling slightly now, the fucking idiot. An actual Spang. In my mind, it made that noise. I think it might of actually been more of a crunch in real life though.
(the mighty badgerAphrodite, on a bar stool, by your side, Thu 21 Jan 2010, 15:23,
5 replies)

I should have been a stuntman.
Picture the scene... It's a beautiful Friday evening on Oxford St. I've just left work after a couple of cheeky beers in the office, and am wandering up the street towards the bus stop. And then I spot a 73, in all its old Routemaster glory, waiting at the traffic lights. So I start running after it. And it starts moving off. So I run a bit faster.

By this time I have an audience - some girls looking out the back window from the top deck are cheering me on - so naturally efforts are redoubled. The bus is moving quite quickly now, and I don't know if I'll make it... But I'm there! With a gazelle like spring, I'm on! Nice'n'safe, one foot on the platform, both hands around the pole. Phew.

At which point, the strap on the record-bag style, erm, bag, slung over my shoulder, decides to snap. And with that sudden jerk, my feet slip off the platform, my hands slide down the pole and my body ends up stretched out on the road, being dragged up London's busiest - but not, take it from me, smoothest - street.

So at this point, the bus is gathering speed, steaming up Oxford St with me fishtailing along the road behind it... I didn't dare let go cos I had no idea what was coming behind me, and I was pulled a good 150 meters before I managed to crane my neck behind me and see the road was clear. So I let go, eventually skidding and rolling to a stop.

I'm not exaggerating, but my little escapade had brought Oxford St to a standstill. People just stopped and stared open mouthed. I got up, brushed myself off and walked about 50 yards back to where a woman was standing holding the remains of my bag.

"Are you alright?!" she asked, clearly expecting me to be dead.

"A lot better than I should be," I mumbled, taking the bag and limping off to the tube (decided against the bus), face burning with embarrassment. The pain only started when I was safely downstairs and hurt overcame the shame.

Since Oxford St has more cctv per mile than anywhere else on the planet, I'm still expecting this footage to appear on 'Aren't People Cunts III'.

A rousing finale.
A few years ago I was doing a concert in Northamptonshire. The main piece for the evening was Shostakovich's Symphony No.10, which is fast, furious and very tricksy. Nevertheless, we ploughed through the entire piece with nary a mistake (something we had hitherto been unable to do, even in the final rehearsal). Our conductor was beside himself with joy and pride, and getting ever-more excited at the piece drew to its dramatic, rousing finale.

Sadly he got a bit over-excited and violent with his conducting, and managed to neatly impale himself in the nose with his baton. He conducted the final few bars with his dress shirt rapidly being stained with blood, and then fell off the podium.
(The Empressit seems you CAN polish a turd!, Thu 21 Jan 2010, 17:36,
9 replies)

Many a year ago
I was walking to my office at the end of the corridor first thing in the morning and the plumber who I'd had a crush on for yonks was standing in the doorway of one of the offices as I went past. He leaned out and said hello as I walked past and in what I think with hindsight was a subconscious effort to be cool, I did that thing where you turn around and start walking backwards so you don't break your pace. I managed to get out a casual "hey" and what I hope was a winning smile before I dropped my MP3 player, the wires tangled themselves around their legs and I fell backwards through the door to my office, which swung shut gently behind me.
(Kitty v1.0desperately naive, Mon 25 Jan 2010, 13:34,
Reply)

Comedy table
At a pub once, they had little round tables in the garden. They were poxy little things only fit for about 2 people, wobbly, and fucking heavy with concrete bases.

The beer garden was very busy, and the chances of grabbing a table were slim. As they were so small, when one became free, people often moved the tables together to be with friends etc...

I noticed one couple in the corner leave, and a split second later, some hawk eyed punter spotted the empty table, and he and his missus set about moving it nearer to their friends.

They picked it up, each on one side, but the concrete base and post remained where it was! They were just carrying the table top. I nudged my co drinkers and got them to watch the couple move the table top near to thier friends. When they went to set the table down, they couldn't work out why the table seemed to be sinking into the ground with no resistance! They were wobbling it all over the place and bending right over to try to set it down. The look of utter confusion on thier faces was a joy to behold.

As they lifted it to normal table height, one of thier very smartly dressed friends who was busy chatting very loudly to other members of the group placed his pint of Guinness on the table top just as the couple were bringing it back upwards. The couple hadn't noticed this, as the penny had dropped for them that something was amiss, and they tipped the table top over to see the bottom just as the smartly dressed man had placed his pint on it.

The smartly dressed man's pint of Guinness fell staight onto his balls and he lurched forward in surprise, just at the right time to recieve the table top right in the face, as the blissfully unaware couple tipped it up to see what was wrong. They laughed at the lack of post, and tipped the table top down again to reveal thier soaking wet friend holding his balls and head and scowling at them.

To cap it all off, about half the beer garden had been watching it all unfold and were pissing thier pants laughing at them.
(Spaff_QuafferWise fwom your gwave., Fri 22 Jan 2010, 18:09,
1 reply)

Chickenlady cocks it up
Some years back I lived on a farm and kept a few birds for their eggs in the garden. There were eight chickens and two geese all in the same enclosure, most of the time they all got on tolerably well - the geese had to be let out in the morning before the chickens otherwise all their food would be scoffed by the stars of Chicken Run and poor old George and Mildred (the geese, even though they were both female) would go hungry despite being four or five times larger than the chooks. The geese kept to themselves and the chickens got on with doing what chickens do.Six of my chickens were pretty hens who behaved like middle aged matrons with handbags as they clucked and scratched around their patch. I had two cockerels - Hector and Samson - both very attractive fellows but both were bantams so they suffered with the same problem that a great many vertically challenged people have - often known as Little Man's Disease or Short Arse Syndrome which tends to reveal itself in a huge amount of arrogance, chippyness and general pig-headedness. Hector and Samson had been nest mates; hatched at the same time and reared by the same adopted mother. The had done everything together; eaten their first worm, had their first cock-a-doodle, feathered their first hen...but these were the bad boys of the poultry world for they had both taken turns at hopping on Ethel their adopted mother. Each morning these two hard cocks would make their rounds of their feathered harem and sometimes twice - mothers, sisters, they didn't care, any vent was a goal.

All was reasonably peaceful apart from the poultry domestic violence and occasional theft of goose grain until Samson decided he was going to be in charge - to Hell with Hector and his house - this was going to be Samson's fowl temple.

The day they fell out was Easter Sunday - rather fitting I suppose. It was the wettest Easter we'd had for a long time. I opened up the geese as usual at about 6.00am and the chickens at about 6.10. Round one began with some flapping of feathers and a smattering of foot stamping from both cockerels and from me as they attempted to gain some ground. Then within moments they were at each other - cock fighting is of course illegal in the UK but these two bad boys wouldn't listen to the voice of reason, good god, they wouldn't even listen to the geese. Hector got Samson's comb in his beak and attempted to mount him like a hen, Samson twisted and turned until he could grasp Hector's wattles in his beak. Then they broke free and began to fly up at one another like multi-coloured feathered ninjas wielding inch long spurs like...like ninja swords and those throwing star things but their spurs didn't come off their ankles because these were normal bantam chickens and not superhero ones, although Hector and Samson seemed not to know this. The hens soon formed a large circle around the two young cocks and the ladies began to cheer and flash their vents as they performed chicken cheerleading dances (okay, that didn't happen - the hens carried on about their chickeny business and ignored them but that's not a gripping). All the while the rain was coming down and Hector and Samson were becoming more bedraggled, bruised and bloodied. This was Raging Bull with birds. Raging Chicken. Raging Cock (actually, isn't there a film called that?).

After about an hour of this fighting I could stand by no longer so I climbed over the fence and went towards the duelling pair. I knew this was a dangerous move - I could easily have been caught up in the battle and ended up going postal on the in-laws (why oh why was I so mild mannered back then? What a missed opportunity). I edged along the muddy path towards the birds, put on my thick gardening gloves for protection and lunged at Samson and missed, fortunately I managed to keep my footing despite slipping about a bit. The chickens didn't run off away from me instead they carried on their fight and I knew this was going to be to the death unless I stepped in with my green welly. I wiped the rain out of my eyes and crouched down, prepared for another shot at grabbing Samson. By now the rain was beginning to rain up - you know when it falls really heavily and splashes back up? My lovely bucolic idyll of a garden had turned into the Somme for chickens and the geese were slapping their big orange webbed feet around like giant flat footed French peasants full of fois gras.

So, there I am drenched to the skin in my wellies and lovely floral Easter Sunday dress, hair plastered to my head and mud splattered up my legs, hands encased in thick grey suede gardening gloves and my face red as a well smacked arse. I was ready to get him - Hector, Samson, I didn't care, I just had to stop the violence - enough was enough. I crept up slowly; the beating rain hiding the sound of my rubber footslaps on the mud. I paused, held my breath and waited for the spurs and feathers to stop flying up in the sodden air. One, two, three, GRAB! I had him! I had Samson by the tail feathers - not the correct way to hold a chicken, but I had him! But he didn't want to be had....when you pick up any bird you ought to hold them gently around the body with their wings tucked in - that way they feel safe and they can't flap their wings or hurt themselves.

Holding an angry cock by its tail is never to be advised.

He began to flap his wings and struggle for freedom to fight again and as he flapped so he began to turn clockwise faster and faster. I was mesmerised (to be fair, I didn't get out much those days). Soon he was just a blur of soggy feathers and squawking. And suddenly like the eye of a storm, the calm in the centre of a tornado, he stopped and in the stillness one blackened beady eye caught mine - he knew he was beaten. I had won - even if the circulation at the tip of my fingers was being cut off by the twisted feathers. Then just like that scene from The Exorcist as Samson began to unravel and turn faster and faster anti-clockwise like an Antichrist cock. I had to get him away from me....so (and I still feel bad about this even now after all these years and poor old Samson has since met a unfortunate end with the local Monsieur Reynard (I live south of London - we're part of the Nord pas de Calais according to the EU, so I can call him Monsieur Reynard)) I lifted my arm and hurled the twirling bird away from me. And in the rain his feathers glinted purple as they arced up over the fence, caught a green sheen as they descended until they became a shitty brown as he plopped into the mud outside the enclosure. And all the hens cheered for they were free of his evil reign. (Actually they carried on scratching about and clucking to themselves, but in my head they cheered).I had won. I had saved the hens from the battling birds. I knew that Samson would return - he could easily fly back over the fence when the time was ready, but this would have taught him his place in the pecking order. It was Hector's House and Samson needed to know he couldn't get the better of me. I knew that when I opened them up the following morning both cockerels would be temporarily blinded by their fight and they'd look as if they'd had a punch up with Mike Tyson. Beady eyed Samson however knew that he would have the last laugh....

I climbed over the fence and missed my footing. I ended up on my backside, floral dress ruined in the mud and my knickers on show to the passing annual Christian Evangelical pilgrimage.
(chickenladyb3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Mon 25 Jan 2010, 11:15,
4 replies)

Deliberate slapstick: We had an eccentric music teacher at school.
He was reeeeelly mad and whacky, but he was a damn fine musician.

It came to the dress rehearsal, and the teacher was mucking about on stage with the rigging crew. All was excited energy and hurried amendments, and I will never forget seeing him running across the stage, and, when he got to middle, leaping into the air like a gazelle, and performing a perfect 360 while farting loudly, to land with the grace of a ballerina and continue running into the wings.
(Je suis un vagabondis an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 22 Jan 2010, 9:32,
2 replies)

AWESOME Arse
T'was popping down to the nearby greasy fry with young work collegue in the passengers seat. Lovely day it was all warm and excellent short skirt weather for the young lassies.

Anywho young cheeky chappy spots a vision devine in the distance and leeringly leans from the cab for a better look. "Ewww Errrr, look at the arse on that!" exclaims workmatey with full on rapist facial expressions, "I'd give that one" et al

The young lady chooses said time to turn around and spots mately in full flow. She smiles widely

Apprentice blokey suddenly stops and goes bright red. He lurches back in to his seat and sits up straight, going VERY QUIET.

'What is the matter," I ask "Are you a tad embarrased for getting caught out?"

Drum podium
Our recently-formed band was to perform for the very first time in a real venue, with a real stage, and best of all a drum podium *gasp*.

The singer decided to use this to improve our stage show so for the opening number he stood on the podium in front of the drums. The MC announced us, the crowd went wild, the guitarist hammered out the first power-chord and our singer leapt off the podium with a huge yell, knocked all the drums over, crashed into the mike stand, stumbled over the foldback speakers and disappeared off-stage into the darkness. As if by magic the collapsing drum kit went "ba-dum tsh".
(Smaleis stuffed, Mon 25 Jan 2010, 10:51,
5 replies)

Pearoast: chav vs window
So we'd just had a nice Sunday lunch at my Mum and Dad's and my girlfriend and I set off home. With the girlfriend driving we made our way down the street my folks live on. It is about a minutes drive to a T junction at the end.

About half way down some baseball cap wearing little scrote, faux adidas trainings bottoms hanging round his arse, riding a BMX, screamed out of a side road in front of us causing us to have to brake sharply. He then weaved all over the road, occasionally turning to laugh at us.

Now my girlfriend isn't the most patient of drivers. An otherwise friendly and loving lady turns into a spitting demon of rage if she deems someone is holding her up on the road in any way (especially a chav). Some choice words were being aired and she accelerated up behind him in an attempt to get round.

By this time the T junction was approaching. The girlfriend put her foot down, whipped round the chav and sped towards it. The Chav didn't like that too much and attempted to pursue, his little chavvy legs pumping for all they were worth.

Now going quite fast the car brakes were applied fairly hard for the junction.

THUMP!

It seemed the Chav had overestimated his braking ability. I turned around in my seat to see him up against the back window, his cheek nicely flattened against the glass, his arms splayed against the back of the car where he had tried to stop himself.

The junction was clear so to the tune of a muffled "aw fuckinell" we gently accelerated away. I watched with a big grin on my face as the glass peeled away from his cheek, leaving him standing there, with his hands in the air and his bike seat firmly wedged up his arse, where it had levered itself when the bike hit the bumper.

Browser just reminded me
Mrs SLVA likes to have her seat quite far back in the car. However, my kids have it in the middle. Consequently, whenever she gets in the car, she moves the seat. Providing we're already moving, once she lifts that bar under the seat to adjust the position, I will either accelerate or brake. On a good day, before she gives up and waits until we stop at traffic lights, I can get her to slide back and forth 4 or 5 times like some sort of giant ride-on printer cartridge.
(sandettie light vessel automaticNew Twitter - @bollocksreally, Fri 22 Jan 2010, 16:09,
7 replies)